‘Environmentalists should be poisoned like rats,’ he said.
Angela Brodie typed out the minutes while Trixie worked in the back garden and Paul sat on the wall in front of the house looking at the loch. She glanced guiltily at the clock, remembering her husband’s demand for steak. The butchers would be closed quite soon. She stacked the minutes in a neat pile and ran out of the kitchen, calling to Paul to say goodbye to Trixie for her. Again, Angela felt a slight unease about Trixie, but she fought it down. Her drab life was now colourful and full of events because of Trixie. She was proud of her clean house and seemed to be on a constant high of energy and hard work. She could not go back to being the lazy, dreamy person she had been for so long. But she bought the steak.
Trixie put down her spade and walked around from the back garden to the front. She saw Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walking along the road. Trixie ran into the house and emerged a little while later with a navy-blue sweater slung over her shoulders. Ignoring her blank-eyed husband she stepped out into the road just as Priscilla was approaching. ‘Good afternoon, Priscilla,’ she called cheerfully.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Thomas,’ said Priscilla. Her eyes fell on the sweater and a little frown marred the smooth surface of her brow. ‘That looks like one of Hamish’s sweaters,’ she said.
Trixie lifted it from her shoulders and held it out to Priscilla. ‘Would you hand it back to him?’ she said, ‘I’d be too embarrassed.’
‘Why?’ asked Priscilla, ignoring the proffered sweater.
Trixie giggled. ‘Our romantic policeman’s a bit soppy about me. He gave it to me to wear, you know, just like an American college kid giving his girlfriend his football sweater.’
Priscilla looked down her nose. ‘Give it to him yourself,’ she snapped, and walked around Trixie and off down the road.
Angela Brodie waited and waited but her husband did not return home. The cat was sleeping by the fire along with the dogs, its claws dug into the carpet in case it should be lifted up and banished to the garden again. The clock ticked slowly, marking off the time. Angela phoned the surgery but only got the answering machine referring callers to the house number. He must have been called out on an emergency, she thought, but then she had a feeling he was deliberately staying away. She tried to read but reading did not bring the old comfort. She turned on the television. There was a party political broadcast on one channel, a sordid play on another, a wildlife programme about snakes on the third, and on the fourth, a ballet with screeching music and white-faced performers in black tights. She switched it off. She opened the cupboard under the sink and took out dusters and polish and began to clean the house all over again.
At ten o’clock, she phoned the police station. Hamish Macbeth said he would go and find the doctor. She had a feeling that Hamish knew where the doctor was.
At half past ten, the kitchen door opened and the doctor entered, or rather was helped in by Hamish. He giggled when he saw his wife and sang to the tune of Loch Lomond, ‘Oh, I’ve just killed Trixie Thomas, the rotten harpie’s dead.’
‘Come to bed, doctor,’ said Hamish. ‘Come away. Where’s the bedroom?’
‘Upstairs,’ said Angela weakly.
She waited, listening to the sounds as the doctor sang loudly about having killed Trixie and Hamish patiently coaxed him into bed.
She could not ever remember her husband being drunk before. But Trixie had warned her that all that smoking and junk food would cause a deterioration in him sooner or later. At the very corner of her mind was a niggling little voice accusing her of having driven her husband to drink, but she did not listen to it. Instead she tucked her sneakered feet – those gleaming, white sneakers so like Trixie’s – under her on the sofa and waited for Hamish to descend.
Trixie
Angela Brodie typed out the minutes while Trixie worked in the back garden and Paul sat on the wall in front of the house looking at the loch. She glanced guiltily at the clock, remembering her husband’s demand for steak. The butchers would be closed quite soon. She stacked the minutes in a neat pile and ran out of the kitchen, calling to Paul to say goodbye to Trixie for her. Again, Angela felt a slight unease about Trixie, but she fought it down. Her drab life was now colourful and full of events because of Trixie. She was proud of her clean house and seemed to be on a constant high of energy and hard work. She could not go back to being the lazy, dreamy person she had been for so long. But she bought the steak.
Trixie put down her spade and walked around from the back garden to the front. She saw Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walking along the road. Trixie ran into the house and emerged a little while later with a navy-blue sweater slung over her shoulders. Ignoring her blank-eyed husband she stepped out into the road just as Priscilla was approaching. ‘Good afternoon, Priscilla,’ she called cheerfully.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Thomas,’ said Priscilla. Her eyes fell on the sweater and a little frown marred the smooth surface of her brow. ‘That looks like one of Hamish’s sweaters,’ she said.
Trixie lifted it from her shoulders and held it out to Priscilla. ‘Would you hand it back to him?’ she said, ‘I’d be too embarrassed.’
‘Why?’ asked Priscilla, ignoring the proffered sweater.
Trixie giggled. ‘Our romantic policeman’s a bit soppy about me. He gave it to me to wear, you know, just like an American college kid giving his girlfriend his football sweater.’
Priscilla looked down her nose. ‘Give it to him yourself,’ she snapped, and walked around Trixie and off down the road.
Angela Brodie waited and waited but her husband did not return home. The cat was sleeping by the fire along with the dogs, its claws dug into the carpet in case it should be lifted up and banished to the garden again. The clock ticked slowly, marking off the time. Angela phoned the surgery but only got the answering machine referring callers to the house number. He must have been called out on an emergency, she thought, but then she had a feeling he was deliberately staying away. She tried to read but reading did not bring the old comfort. She turned on the television. There was a party political broadcast on one channel, a sordid play on another, a wildlife programme about snakes on the third, and on the fourth, a ballet with screeching music and white-faced performers in black tights. She switched it off. She opened the cupboard under the sink and took out dusters and polish and began to clean the house all over again.
At ten o’clock, she phoned the police station. Hamish Macbeth said he would go and find the doctor. She had a feeling that Hamish knew where the doctor was.
At half past ten, the kitchen door opened and the doctor entered, or rather was helped in by Hamish. He giggled when he saw his wife and sang to the tune of Loch Lomond, ‘Oh, I’ve just killed Trixie Thomas, the rotten harpie’s dead.’
‘Come to bed, doctor,’ said Hamish. ‘Come away. Where’s the bedroom?’
‘Upstairs,’ said Angela weakly.
She waited, listening to the sounds as the doctor sang loudly about having killed Trixie and Hamish patiently coaxed him into bed.
She could not ever remember her husband being drunk before. But Trixie had warned her that all that smoking and junk food would cause a deterioration in him sooner or later. At the very corner of her mind was a niggling little voice accusing her of having driven her husband to drink, but she did not listen to it. Instead she tucked her sneakered feet – those gleaming, white sneakers so like Trixie’s – under her on the sofa and waited for Hamish to descend.
Trixie
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